


Vuur

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ficlet, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:54:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5175908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn watches Boromir and Faramir’s first kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vuur

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The anticipation alone has him warm beneath his robes, and by the time he’s shedding them in his quarters, he can think of nothing else. The crown has already been set aside by servants, but none enter this room, except for his princes and an occasional visit from his wife, though they have an understanding. This night is his alone. His, and the sons of the late Steward.

Boromir and Faramir wait patiently for him. They still wear their clothes, though their cloaks and boots are discarded. Aragorn takes himself down to the light undershirt below and his trousers, all the _king’s attire_ hung over the back of a chair. He watches, as he strips, the hunger in their eyes, feral greed in Boromir’s and quiet longing in Faramir. Beneath it is their own nervousness. Faramir’s is stronger, and he worries his lip when he isn’t close to salivating, but Boromir holds his lesser anxieties behind a mask. This is _wrong_ , and he would never wish to cause Faramir any harm.

Faramir wants this. Aragorn can see it as he strides towards the bed, expecting Boromir’s arms to open for him as usual. They don’t. The two princes sit on the middle of the mattress, and Aragorn perches at the headboard, lounging back into the pillows, nearly as soft as those back in Imladris. Being a king has its perks, though its stresses. Both his men look to him, and he knows what they want. Permission, in a way, but more importantly, an order. It’ll ease their guilt, doing it on their king’s word rather than their own sin. Aragorn’s never lied to a lover, but he recognizes where one must go slowly and carefully, and he quietly suggests, “Boromir, perhaps you should be the one to start? Have you yet tasted your brother’s lips?”

A thickness comes into Boromir’s gaze, and Aragorn can see the tremor that threatens Faramir’s skin. He glances sideways, watching Boromir through long lashes and the curtain of his honey hair. Boromir looks back. He’s bolder, stronger, though not wiser and no more valiant. Each has their qualities. Both are _beautiful_. Boromir is ruggedly handsome, Faramir elegantly pretty. Aragorn desires them both, and is fortunate, he’s found, to have them each return his affection.

And he’s learned, from a ranger’s careful instinct and subtle observation, that they share other affections, even more untoward than to their male king. Faramir leans hesitantly forward, plush lips parting, as though unsure of what to do. Boromir looks slowly down his body, then climbs up again. 

Then Boromir’s hand shoots forward. It clasps onto Faramir’s cheek, earning a quick hitch of breath. Boromir’s thumb lightly strokes Faramir’s sun-kissed skin, straying down to the stubble that lines his jaw, not unlike both his lovers’. Boromir ducks forward first in reverence, then _need_ , and when his mouth attaches to Faramir’s, it’s clear he has no intention of letting go. Faramir gasps against his brother’s lips, opening wide immediately. Aragorn watches Boromir’s broad tongue trace Faramir’s bottom lip before slipping inside, and then they’re molded too close to see any tongue at all, but Aragorn can tell from the noises and the switching tilts of their heads that both are at work. Faramir’s hands climb to Boromir’s shoulders, clinging to his tunic, and Boromir slips his other arm around Faramir’s middle, pulling their bodies flush together.

Aragorn, for his part, tries to remain quiet: he doesn’t want to shatter the spell. He envisioned this, first in shame, then wonder, soon into each of his princes’ ears. He would have all his citizens happy, and he would have these two most so in his bed. Of all the many miracles he’s been given, this often seems the luckiest: two strong, willing men, eager to share and to delight in one another, so lovely in all things. He thought, somehow, that this first time would be more difficult, more awkward, but the two come together like they’ve practiced all their lives, and indeed, they have on Aragorn. 

What starts as fast, fleeting kisses slides swiftly into heated writhing, tongues and teeth touching again and again with sensual hips grinding hard into one another. Their legs intertwine, and Boromir pulls Faramir heavily into his lap, so that Faramir’s thighs must part around him. Their fingers have gotten entangled in each other’s hair, occasionally tugging lightly to muffled groans. Soon their chins are wet from messy coupling, mouths too wild with minds all but gone, and Aragorn’s housed cock strains at its confines from the sight, the sounds, and the smell of them. He wants to touch and taste, but he’s patient. Or as much as he can be. 

Boromir is taller only by a hair, and he must tilt up with Faramir atop him for the kisses to work. He smoothes one sword-calloused hand up and down Faramir’s arched back while Faramir whimpers and squirms in enchantment. Aragorn had meant to guide them. He’d meant to offer idle encouragement, bringing them steadily closer, but they dive right in, as Aragorn and Boromir did that first time on their quest, when they were lonely and desperate and full of equal admiration and lust. Faramir’s first with Aragorn was different, gentler, romantic, though he knows Faramir can take things as rough as his brother. Aragorn enjoys many kinds of lovemaking, including watching, when both parties are ones that he loves and that will share his bed after, lie on either side of him and stroke his chest, and the three of them will be able to talk and to laugh. 

Their passion boils over, and Aragorn drops his own hand into his lap accordingly, massaging the prominent bulge that’s formed. He’s only kneaded himself a few moments when Boromir begins clawing at Faramir’s tunic, first tugging at the laces and then growling in irritation and reaching down to find the hem. Faramir obediently lifts his arms, as he’s often done when Aragorn’s descended on him, and Boromir rips his coverings away.

Shirtless, Faramir returns to Boromir’s lips, though he has more success with plucking at the ties of Boromir’s shirt. He stops halfway through when Boromir’s hand slips inside his trousers, squeezing his ass. Into Faramir’s mouth, Boromir hisses, “I have long wished to touch you here, little brother.”

“And I have long wished you to do so,” Faramir murmurs back. He’s smiling so very brightly, and the kiss he gives Boromir is one of sheer devotion. He gets Boromir’s shirt open soon after, though by now Boromir has both hands cupping Faramir’s round cheeks, and Faramir seems to lose all his dexterity. 

To Aragorn, Boromir drawls, “You were not lying, my king, when you told me of this treasure.” Faramir’s cheeks flush instantly, though he gave Aragorn permission to speak of such things. “The firmness, and yet the softness, the warmth... yet words could not prepare me for the real thing. I do not know how I waited so long to claim such a beautiful body...”

“You did not wish to hurt me,” Faramir murmurs, before adding with a dark chuckle, “And our father would have me flogged to death if he thought I tempted you so, though he would just as soon insist I had not the worth to seduce anyone, let alone Gondor’s finest son.”

“And he was a fool for it,” Aragorn jumps in, even as Boromir’s mouth opens, clearly ready for an angered retort. They’ve both held Faramir before and tried, with words and loving touches and utter sincerity, to dissuade him from the self-doubt Denethor drilled into him. It’s the one thing that makes Aragorn wish he’d forsaken Imladris and returned far sooner: he would have treated Faramir well from birth, and never tolerated anything else.

Boromir, at least, has always been there for Faramir, and Boromir follows by lifting his hands back to Faramir’s face, which he cups in both palms. He mutters fiercely, “ _You_ are Gondor’s finest, little brother. You have tempted me from the moment I could first feel it, and you are worthy of all the love in this world.”

Faramir’s smiling again, right to his eyes. He answers softly, “And I already have more love than any could ever hope for.” He finishes by shifting forward to capture Boromir’s lips anew, and they dissolve into a kiss that stirs Aragorn’s hand into moving again. Now they giggle like children as they kiss, though they grind like animals, and the love between them is plain. It makes Aragorn feel _honoured_ , though they’ve both used the term to him.

When Faramir finally manages to part long enough to breathe, Boromir sets in on his neck, and Faramir tilts to the side, moaning. Through quiet pants, he mumbles, “Oh, but... if my brother is to take me, our king will be left out.”

Aragorn, plenty aroused enough, nods his head in dismissal and casually replies, “I have had both of you, and I imagine I will find myself in the middle often enough. For now...”

“We could put Faramir in the middle,” Boromir growls, his hands coming forward to squeeze Faramir’s chest and trace hard circles around his nipples, rosy-brown and pebbling. “He could fit his talented mouth to your cock while I took his rear.”

Faramir looks thoroughly enthused by the idea. He nuzzles fondly into the side of Boromir’s face with clear approval, but Aragorn is already unlacing his trousers and slipping his own hand inside. He orders instead, “Boromir, lay our lover down and take him properly this first time.”

Faramir looks just as willing for that, though he asks coyly, “And when do I take Boromir?”

“Now, if you like,” Boromir answers, in an adoring tone that says he would fight even his king to please his brother. But Faramir laughs and kisses the idea away. 

He murmurs between a slew of them, “No, I want it like this. ...And then I want to ride your lap, and then I wish to take you while my king takes me, before you both claim me over every surface in this room.”

Boromir doesn’t need to be told again. Groaning, he takes hold of Faramir’s body, one arm around his waist and the other his shoulders, and presses him down into the sheets. Faramir’s laid out and arranged, pulled down with his legs spread around his brother. Then Boromir kisses him again whilst wrestling his trousers down his hips. 

Aragorn’s now far enough to have precum to smear about his length, and he pumps himself steadily to the sight, until both men are naked and humping each other and so intoxicatingly _gorgeous_ , and Boromir struggles away from Faramir’s mouth long enough to breathe, “Aragorn...”

Aragorn nods, though Boromir has already turned away again, back to tasting Faramir’s tongue. Aragorn turns to the nightstand and uses his free hand to fish the little bottle of oil out of the top drawer.

He means to hand it to his princes.

But when he turns to face them, he finds his arm won’t move to hold it out.

Instead, he sighs, and delivers it himself, crawling forward to join.


End file.
